and you can kill the old me.
Are you past pity? If you have a consciousness now, if something I can call "you" has something like "consciousness", I doubt you remember the last days. I play them over and over: I life your wasted body onto the commode, your arms looped around my neck, aiming your bony bottom so that it will not bruise on a rail. — Donald Hall. ———————— Dipped black hats. A solemn silence. Then comes the river of crocodile tears. A reluctant but necessary farewell to a life that is not worth remembering. Deep in the ground. A silent scream from beneath where nobody hears and nobody sees that there is no more hope and no way out of the grave dug out with bare fingers and pain. Dig deeper. Everything is beyond surface level. Flashback to when everything seemed normal. The question to ask is if it is okay to normalise death like romanticising the end of life. Deplete. Soon, there will be no more strength to lose the sense of self. That is when it is time to go. ———— Don't look
